


It Is What It Is...

by SambliongPalpatine



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SambliongPalpatine/pseuds/SambliongPalpatine
Summary: ... said Love.
Relationships: Filavandrel aén Fidhál/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	It Is What It Is...

**Author's Note:**

> Salut mes amis. My life has been crazy lately, I don’t have a fixed domicile and god, being blind is hard mate. 
> 
> Anyway, none of you are here for my sad story so, yeah. I wrote a Witcher fic! I’m more of a book fan to be honest but I’ve seen 2-3ish episodes of the tv show je. So this mixes a bit of the two; mostly the songs :p  
> I watched the first two and then the 8th ‘cause the friend I was staying with was watching it and they were kind enough to describe it to me. 
> 
> So I have only two things to say about the show:  
> a) Kid!Geralt.   
> b) "Your mother fuck a snowman?"
> 
> I hope you enjoy this despite it all, though.

Geralt comes back to slowly. His head hurts and the bandages around his torso the only thing keeping him together. 

He doesn’t remember what happened or how he got here, even where ‘here’ is. He knows though that he is laying on something soft and comfortable. 

He tries to roll over but pain shoots through him, ripping a groan from his throat and he stills. 

“I’m gladto see you have joined us once more,” someone says. 

Someone familiar. Someone whose voice he hasn’t heard in a while. A voice he thought he would never hear again. 

He squints at the room to search for the source. The room is pleasantly warm and wide; there are shelves filled with thick thomes and scrolls, a table with two chairs and the surprisingly comfortable bed he is laying on. 

There is a tapestry hanging from one of the walls that he thinks he recognize and no further decor than a rug adorn the room. 

The owner of the voice is seated on an opening in the east wall; his legs werepulled up against his chest, his hair loose framing his face and gray eyes focused solely on him, that are made more prominent by the dark circles underneath them. 

Geralt remembers a time, long long ago, when those eyes were blue and regarded him with fondness and kindness. He remembers a time filled with soft caresses and joyeux laughter. A time not marred by sorrow and despair where they spent hours talking and making love. 

A time when he thought he could stay. 

But Geralt wasn’t, still isn’t, made for a sedentary life.

He can’t settle down, it matters little how much he wishes he could. Witchers aren’t bred for that. 

No, they are bred for monster-hunting and to be feelingless and just- 

His stay with Yennefer after the Dragon hunt all those years ago is proof of how unsavory a bad idea it is for him to try ‘settling down’ with someone. 

Geralt sighs and rubs his eyes. “Where are we? This isn’t the hamlet where I last saw you,” he grumbles. 

Filavandrel laughs a short hollow laugh and shakes his head. “No, it is not. We moved North, you see. We, how did you call it? Ah, yes. We rebuilt,” he says as he stands up and walks closer to the bed. 

He looks so tired; his skin is paler, his hair is lax and not as shiny as it should be, the dark circles under his eyes and the slight slump of his shoulders. The cost of what he had to do for his people is etched in every fibre of his body. 

“So war was spared?” he asks. 

The Elf turns his head away, subconsciously touching his left arm just above the elbow. “No,” is the only thing he says. 

Geralt slumps back onto the pillows. Now a few things make sense; things in the Elf’s demeanor. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles because what else is there to say? He could have said nothing, that is what’s expected of him after all. 

Witchers don’t feel anything, they say and yet- and yet here he is, blackened slow heart racing and breaking at the sorrow he can smell from the other man. 

“How did I end up here?” Geralt says, looking around the room again. 

Filavandrel shrugs. “The Sylvan found you layingon a puddle of your own blood in a field not far from here,” he explains, dispassionately. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out. 

“Eloquent as ever,” his host comments coldly. 

Geralt scowls but swallows the comeback, he isn’t in the mood to start any kind of argument right now; he is tired and hurting and Filavandrel isn’t faring any better. 

The Witcher carefully scoots to the side and pats the space next to him. The Elf raises a blonde eyebrow but otherwise makes no move. 

Geralt rolls his eyes and grunted, thus prompting his companion to finally crawl into bed where he laid on the edge of the mattress, leavingan abyss between them. 

“What?” he groused as he settles more comfortably. 

Geralt is looking at him; words tripping over each other, words he’s forgotten how to use, wanting to be the first to leave his mouth. 

The space between them is made of words unsaid, memories and desires, yearnings. It is made of things left unsaid and unmade promises. 

He lets out a breath but doesn’t lower his eyes, eyes that have made others squirm in unease. Geralt can count with the fingers of one hand the people that can hold his gaze without cowering in fear. “How long has it been since you actually slept?” he chooses to ask. 

Filavandrel narrows his eyes at him. “What is it to you, Witcher?” he growls with steel in his voice. 

Geralt asks for patience. He sometimes forgets that there are people as stubborn or even more so than him. “Filavandrel,” he starts, sternly. “Sleep-depriving yourself to death is not the way to go.” 

Something flashes in the Elf’s eyes but it’s too fleeting for the Witcher to determine. “Again, what is that to you?” he grits out. 

If Geralt’s body weren’t on fire he would roll over to pin the other into the mattress, making the Elf look at him and answer his questions. Or maybe just get out of the bed and pace. 

“Filavandrel,” he speaks softer this time. “It is to me. You know there are things I cannot say but trust me when I say you are to me,” he whispers into the space between them. 

“I don’t know if I can,” his host whispers in return. 

Geralt stares at him for a moment and decides to change the subject. Or rather go back to a previous one they hadn’t really delved on. “So, the Sylvan is still with you?” he remembers he had wanted to ask before, when the Elf first mentioned it. 

Filavandrel hums, a small smile grazing his lips. “Yes, he chose to stay and help us build a new home,” he answers with a tinge of fondness that warms Geralt’s believed-to-be cold heart. 

“I’m glad to see your life conditions have improved,” the Witcher says earnestly. 

Because he cares. He’s always cared. He knows though that the Elf has noreason to believe he does. 

Filavandrel remains silent for so long that if it weren’t for his open eyes Geralt would think him asleep. “Sometimes I doubt the cost was worth it,” he confesses and it somehow sounds defeated. 

“Sometimes,” he starts, still softly for there are things that don’t need to be spoken loud. The space between them is to be filled by careful and gentle words that are only for them, “sacrifices must be made, specially when the survival of the people is in your hands,” he says. 

The Elf swallows and lowers his eyes. “Then why is it that I still feel guilty?” he whispers sorrowfully into the slowly filling space between them. 

Geralt hums, he knew the feeling all too well. “Because the lesser evil doesn’t mean lesser pain,” he mutters. “You still care about the consequences.”

A silence falls upon them, it isn’t as heavy as it was before or as it should. Geralt places a hand between them, as if it were a bait at sea waiting to be hooked, hoping beyond hope that it has the desired effect. 

“Trust me,” he asks unblinkingly. 

The Elf shakes his head lightly. “I can’t,” he whispers. “That bridge was burnt long ago.” 

The emotions in his host’s eyes make something inside Geralt twist painfully. “We can rebuild it,” he suggests, a little of the hope he feels bleeds through his tone. 

“I don’t think that is possible,” the other replies quietly. 

“You know I couldn’t stay,” he says in reference to an event of long ago. 

Filavandrel’s gaze hardens making the witcher regret his words immediately. “I never asked you to stay, Geralt,” he snaps, corners of his mouth tightening. “I just asked you to come back,” his voice cracks at the end, he shuts his eyes in probable mortification. 

Geralt doesn’t know what to do or say, he’s never understood emotions. He’s never known what to do with them. Witchers aren’t supposed to care about- well, anything but coin and monsters. 

Geralt has never been good at doing what’s expected of him. 

His hand is still between them. Still waiting for something. 

“Filavandrel,” he starts, not really knowing what to say next. 

But the Elf saves him the effort of trying to breach this emotional chasm he’s created. “You don’t have to excuse yourself, Witcher,” he says blankly. “I know,” he sounds resigned now. “I’ve heard about your destiny,” he admits quietly. 

Something tightness inside him; that hidden, old place in his heart where Filavandrel belonged. That place that hurt when he heard of the Great Cleansing. That place that hurt but also rejoiced when he saw the Elf again all those years ago at the edge of the world. He’s never wanted to stay more than at that moment. 

If he had had a choice he would have chosen to stay. Stay and help this elf, who has seen things in him only a counted few also have, shoulder this burden that is holding him down. 

Hard though as he tried, Geralt can’t see how the Elf could have possibly found that out. He frowns at his host, what exactly did he know? And how much? “How did you-“

Filavandrel interrupts him with a tired huff. “I met a friend of yours back in Posada a while ago,” he gives a small shrug. “Lets just say alcohol tends to loose someone’s tongue,” he smirks but his expression sours quickly. “Also music can reach even the farthest and darkest corners,” he mutters through clenched teeth. 

“The bard was only trying to change how the people regarded Witchers,” he says, excusing his old... friend. 

His hand still waited. Though he isn’t sure for what at this point. 

The Elf snorts derisivley. “I can certainly see that. After all you did thrust every elf far back on the shelf,” he sings the verse mockingly. “That certainly made you a hero in humans eyes,” if he sounded resentful well, Geralt couldn’t blame him. 

Geralt has never wanted to kill fucking Dandelion as much as he wanted to do in that moment. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out with feeling. 

Filavandrel chuckles humorlessly. “He was too kind to explain that respect doesn’t make history,” he sneers. 

Geralt swallows thickly. “Filavandrel-“ he starts. 

But said Elf interrupts him yet again. “Are we reallyvillains just because we wanted to survive, Geralt?” is the question he utters softly into the space between them. 

“No,” he replies even when the confirmation isn’t necessary. 

The Elf lets out a long, dragged sigh. “It doesn’t really matter anyway,” he says neutrally. “Humans don’t care to know us,” he says bitterly. 

Geralt’s hand still lays in the pillow between them but his hope is withering. 

“Humans will always fear what they don’t understand,” he mumbles. 

Filavandrel stares at him for long moments before closing his eyes with a small pained sound. “Anyway, you should rest for your destiny awaits you elsewhere,” he whispers, eyes still closed. 

Geralt wishes in that moment that what they said of Witchers was true; that he felt no emotions neither cared about them. Because he thinks his heart just broke; it broke at the utter tiredness, defeat and resignation on the Elf’s face, at the dismissal of his own wants and needs and the pride Geralt hurt once before and is now forbidding him of asking anything from the Witcher. 

“Filavandrel,” he says, finally making a choice for himself. “My so called destiny has already been fulfilled. So I am in no hurry,” he taps gently on the pillow with the hand that still laid there.“I can stay... for awhile,” he hesitates. 

Filavandrel gives him a scolding look. “I won’t ask anything of you,” he bits out. 

Geralt closes his eyes briefly, he usually is very short in patience but knows this time he owes to this Elf to be patient. “I never said you had to ask,” he grouses because he is still himself. 

Filavandrel’s eyes shine and finally, painstakingly slowly he drags his hand up, snaking his arm over Geralt’s and rests his hand next to Geralt’s, not yet touching. “What are you saying?” he asks softly. 

Geralt stares at him without speaking for a moment, admiring the beautiful face with the eyes that seem to be softening and regaining their usual blue. “I said that I can- no,” he shakes his head before correcting himself. “I will stay here awhile. With you,” he adds like an afterthought. 

There is the faintest upturn twist of the Elf’s lips, he still doesn’t link their fingers, and blinks sleepily. “If you ever leave without a word don’t even bother to come back,” he warns, seriously. 

Geralt dares to graze the faintest of touches against the other’s and nods once. “Fair enough,” he agrees. 

And so the Elf closes the remaining space between their fingers and entwines them. 


End file.
